“What's the matter, Little Sister?” Chasm purrs, sliding up beside me like the pervy shadow he is. “Realize you missed the rules of the dress code?” He looks me over and then shakes his head, making an exaggerated tsk-tsk sound that has me rolling my eyes in a particularly dramatic fashion. “Nice Pikachu pants, by the way. Are you fucking twelve?”
“You look like a HotTopic ad from 2002 vomited all over you,” I spit back, probably reconfirming the idea that he has of me being twelve. Nice one, Dakota. Really, spectacular. You could be a professional linguist. Hell, you could be a fancy writer like your bio-mom at this point.
In all reality, Chasm looks … well, shit. Chasm looks really good. Like really, really, horrifyingly good. Tight black pants, bright white sneakers, and a black and white striped dress shirt that’s only got a single button through the wrong hole, leaving it elegantly skewed. It leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination, drawing attention to his flat chest and myriad ink. Fuck, he’s hot, and I have to admit, the small amount of eyeliner he’s wearing is doing things for me that I never thought possible.
“I thought the eBoy look wasn’t supposed to leave the bedroom?” I query back, like I actually care. I'm just … surprised? Most of the time, when I see Chasm, he’s wearing his school uniform or well, almost nothing at all. Shirtless and barefoot, just like Parrish. Now that I’ve gotten a second glimpse of his style, I actually like him more. Which isn’t a lot at all anyway.
“Aww, cute,” Chasm says, smiling sharply at me. He gestures in the direction of a large firepit with his beer and then tilts his head the same way. “Want to get plastered and hang out? You can tell me all about how much you hate it here.”
I shrug my shoulders and tuck my hands into the front pocket of my hoodie, clutching my phone for comfort. I am so far outside my element here. I mean miles. I mean leagues. Light years. Legions.
“Why the fuck not?” I strut across the grass like I own the place while people stop dancing or talking to turn and look at me. Some of them look actively perplexed, like they can’t figure out if I’m the most mockable human being they’ve ever seen or the most interesting.
Please give me the latter, I beg you! I call out, looking up into the stars for comfort. I’ve got this. I’ve fucking got this.
I squat down beside the cooler and extract a bottle of … I look at the label. Jägermeister?
“You drink hard alcohol?” Chasm asks, pausing beside me and tilting his head to one side. He even manages to lift a single eyebrow in mocking query. Ah there it is, NOW you sound intelligent—in your own head. Congrats on that, by the way. “Excuse me for saying this: but it looks like you couldn’t handle the dregs of a wine cooler.”
I unscrew the bottle’s top and then lift it to my lips for a swig.
The taste of black licorice hits the back of my throat, nearly making me gag, and that’s before the acrid burn of the booze really starts to singe my throat. Still, I’m not about to be mocked by a guy with a lightning bolt dyed into his hair. No freaking way.
I almost choke—but then almost is the key word. I manage to swallow the alcohol, dropping the bottle from my lips and giving Chasm what I hope is a don’t fuck with me sort of look. However it comes across, he throws his head back and laughs at me, the sound cold and cruel.
He’s sharp, this one. Razor-fucking-sharp. I wouldn’t bother with Chasm at all if he weren’t Parrish’s near-constant companion. Seems to fancy himself the dark knight to Parrish’s indolent prince routine.
“You look like you want to puke, to be honest,” he drawls, turning his head just slightly to look at me. He doesn’t seem unappreciative of the fact that I just chugged, like, five shots of hard liquor in one gulp though.
“Where did Parrish run off to?” I ask without even meaning to. Chasm gives me a look.
“You have a thing for your brother, Little Sister? That's seriously messed up.” He stands up straight, finishes his beer, and then chucks it into the grass. I narrow my eyes in irritation but Chasm either doesn't notice or pretends not to, reaching out to take the Jäger bottle from my hand. “He's probably off banging Lumen in an upstairs suite.” He snaps the last word off the end of his tongue, like he’s mildly annoyed about something and then takes a swig.
Talk about broody.
Chasm McKenna is the very definition.
My stomach churns as I glance away from his stormy expression, this sudden, irritational surge of irritation flowing through me. Upstairs banging Lumen? I think, clenching my jaw. Seriously?
